The Creek
It’s a sun-laden sort of Sunday, and my heart wants to tumble along a babbling brook in a tree grove, so we head to Greenough.
ADVENTURE ART CLUB | DAY 13 | 9.13
GREENOUGH PARK
RATTLESNAKE NEIGHBORHOOD
MISSOULA, MT
Greenough Park is nestled in the Rattlesnake neighborhood of Missoula, Montana. A paved pathway raised in ridges in places by the roots of ancient pines takes wanderers through an arbor of trees, beside reaching rock faces, near houses in neighborhoods, along the banks of the aptly named Rattlesnake Creek. For those feeling adventurous, you can step off the path and onto the earth via an offshoot trail that takes you through tangled branches to the banks of the water. I am less familiar with this trail, but every time I come here I wonder, “Why don’t I visit more often??”
Have you ever experienced that feeling of being a kid in wild places, building forts of found sticks and acting out imaginary storylines of heroes and villains? A small sample of that feeling finds you here in the undergrowth. Light filters in softly. Pathways meander. Here there are excellent hiding places. On our journey today, we even find a tiny stone pathway built for faeries.
Scout and I are joined by my husband as we make our way past stones I resist collecting, off the all-too-intentional pavement, and onto the dry earth to make our way to the creekside. Eventually, we find a smooth fallen log to rest on, as I get to work sketching the scene.
I’m enchanted by interwoven roots in the earth that tether large leaning cottonwoods as they stretch up above me to the sky and over the water. Decaying logs on the land meet the new life of young plants growing beneath them. I find a tiny blue forget-me-not at my feet, thriving, unnoticed. Shorebirds play in the somersault waves over rocks and logs nearby. As soon as my pencil meets paper, I’m lost in the looking and silent.
I often marvel at how easily I slip into the slow flow of creation, even when I, like the creek, am typically tumbling and rushing along. This Winter, I joined a writing group that met across town, for which, for some reason, I was always running late. I would step into that room flustered and disheveled, with doubt in my heart as to what, on earth, I could accomplish in that headspace. Every time, despite this uncertainty, I would leave with something, perhaps just a line, I was proud of. Joining that circle reinforced a realization I’ve come to:
My creativity is perpetual, like a river. All I need is to find access points to the flow.
I used to think my creativity was a fire banked low. It did not leap and burn me, insatiable, like the creative compulsion of many of my other art friends. My fingers didn’t itch to draw at all times, and I could go months without making, if necessary. I thought my fire is not hot, but sustained.
Over the years, though, I’ve come to know that my creativity is a river, more water than fire. It flows in several forms. It surges with seasons. It nourishes life. Sometimes its current demands careful attention. Sometimes it simply drifts along. Coming to its banks, I can dip my toe in or submerge my whole body beneath its waves. It flows, whether I observe or not. It is constant.
I slip into that flow today as I sketch by the creek. Scout plays in the water, finding branches to break. Jordan, my husband, rests on a fallen log in silence, waiting for me. Eventually, I finish, and I feel noticeably less encumbered than the start. Then, like a child, I proceed to clamber over rocks and logs, exploring the shoreline. This is my happy place, anywhere and everywhere I find myself. Off the trail discovery of sights big and small. Attention to micro and macro in one. The leaf at the bottom of the water in the rocks. The current’s bobs. The larger logs. The life giving scene of a creek in a forest that runs through a town. The metaphors of life that run alongside and within it all.
Eventually, we make our way back to the car, hearts just a bit lighter than they were before.
Love & Gratitude,
- Christina
